


I Think a Change in Settings Would be Nice

by phxsphorvs (andsowefell)



Series: Alternate Universes [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:25:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5219624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andsowefell/pseuds/phxsphorvs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1954 in California, and Sam Winchester is a struggling freelance artist. The new deal he's received from local hotshot lawyer - and (not that Sam knows it) Mafioso, Lucifer Petrucelli, to come work for him, is reputed by everyone Sam tells of the offer to be a proverbial Deal with the Devil.<br/>That's not to say Sam isn't intrigued by Lucifer, or that he wants to quit, ever.<br/>Sometimes the worst kinds of deals are the most satisfying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I found a way to throw Michifer into this too just you wait
> 
> also the title is from Lana Del Rey's _Honeymoon_ because Lana Del Rey is very 50s and a goddess and that was important and relevant to the story yes

Sam swirls the decadent golden drink in his snifter around, the heady aromas in the air coaxing him to breathe deeper. 

Across from him, his possible patron, a talented, experienced, infuriatingly beautiful man of no small renown and an even larger lack of verbal restraint, arranges his food with his cutlery into an artistic ensemble. 

"Thank you for the invitation," Sam says, more out of necessity than politeness. Lucifer Petrucelli is not a man who would respect politeness. He is an invite-and-take man, a man of whim and wit. 

"You're welcome," Lucifer replies graciously. Coming from him, _you're welcome_ is like a declaration of love. He sips from his own wineglass, pale liquid swirling, precariously low. He'll be wanting a refill before long, and wanting Sam to have a bottle of fine cognac along with him, not that Sam had the first to himself. One of Lucifer's less redeeming qualities is the efficiency with which he holds his drink, having gone through half a bottle of cognac and one of wine, and no less composed than before. 

"Let us discuss your latest project," Lucifer suggests. He sets his glass down, long fingers toying with the stem boredly. Something about his lack of attention and respect for a situation that could well be Sam's big break as an artist disgusts Sam.

"It's a painting," Sam explains, unnecessarily. Lucifer nods, sandy brows furrowed over powder-blue eyes, square jaw set tersely, disinterestedly, and that's all Sam needs to see to know that his chance has evaporated into nothingness.

Still he tries. He wants this job very badly. "It's of angels," he continues, and a tiny spark of interest enters Lucifer's eyes, interest that no doubt has something to do with his Sicilian ancestry, and the ruthlessness thereof. Self-interest. Sam will have to keep fueling the fire, so he nods. Lucifer leans across the table on his elbows.

"Do continue," he invites, voice deep and mellifluous and curious. His eyes are narrow, his lips set. Angels never fail to fascinate the man, Sam has realised. Lucifer's office is filled with statues of the beings, wings brushing every available surface. It's obsessive enough to border on ridiculous, but Lucifer does not strike him as a religious man. To the contrary; the blond blasphemes at every opportunity allowed him, and his lack of interest in church and the spiritual is something out of a bad novel. Why, then, the intrigue of angels?

Sam supposes it's simple narcissism, or curiosity. Perhaps Lucifer sees something in the angels he does not. Something so beautiful, he cannot pull himself away from it.

"Archangels," Sam says dumbly. "It's a painting of archangels. Uh, three of them."

"Interesting," Lucifer drawls, looking amused. "Which three?"

"Michael," Sam replies. Of course. Of course. "Gabriel. And Lucifer."

"And Lucifer," Lucifer repeats.

"And Lucifer," Sam parrots, feeling incredibly stupid.

"And me," Lucifer parrots back, grinning. "I would very much like to see this painting of yours, Samuel. I hope your depiction is accurate enough to satisfy my want to buy it and employ you."

"I don't know what angels are supposed to look like," Sam admits, uneasy. "And my name's Sam, not Samuel."

"No. You _prefer_ to be called Sam," Lucifer argues calmly. 

"Uh," Sam goes. Lucifer smiles. 

"Come to my house the day after tomorrow. We can further discuss the painting then. I'm sure you did a marvelous job. Bring it with you," he suggests, and Sam sees it for what it is: a subtle dismissal. 

"Yes, sir," he mutters, mentally calculates his check and fishes for his wallet. Lucifer grabs his hand, pulls it away from his pocket.

"It's my treat," he offers. "And not yet, Sam. Not until you have heard a definitive _yes_ from me."  
He scrawls an address, presumably his own, onto a notepad and tears the top page off.

"Thank you," Sam says, astonished, and pushes his chair in. Lucifer nods, and hails the maître d'hôtel. Sam leaves with the taste of delectable food in his mouth and an offer brightening his near future, and the memory of Lucifer's bright eyes.

He can't decide which is best.

 

He takes nearly an hour packing his painting suitably into the most suitable white tissue paper he can find, and even then, he is afraid Lucifer will not appreciate his effort. 

With twenty minutes to spare and finding it won't do to waste any more time, Sam resigns himself to his fate and retrieves his best suit from his wardrobe, cheap and nearly threadbare black cotton. It's the best he can do. Lucifer will have to take him as he comes. If he wants fine silk or brocade, he really is an asshole of immense proportions, Sam decides, and considers a spray of cologne. He decides against it; this is a job offer, no date or rendez-vous. 

Prepared, then, he picks up his painting and the note with Lucifer's address on it up, reads the address. He lives in San Marino, for God's sake. A rich asshole if ever there was one.

Sam glances at his cheap plastic watch, startled to see that he has fifteen minutes before his appointment. Horrified, he dashes downstairs, out of the door, and onto the street. Luckily, bordering on a miracle, the first cab he flags stops. He gets himself and the painting into the taxi's interior as quickly as possible. The cabbie watches all this with amusement, before digging a cigarette from the recesses of his pocket and lighting it. Instantly, the scent of smoke and menthol fills the car, and Sam tries not to gag.

"Where to?" the cabbie yells. Sam passes him the note with Lucifer's address on it, because the crinkling of tissue paper and the blare of The Orioles are entirely preventing him from reading the address to the man.

The music stops, suddenly. The cabbie turns to Sam, stunned. "You gawn to Adair? Das where the rich asshole lawyer lives."

"Lucifer," Sam sighs. "I know. I got a job offer."

The cabbie whistles, impressed, and grins, revealing tobacco-and-coffee-browned teeth. "A'ight, le's get you to the rich asshole lawyer."

As they drive, the cabbie continually makes small talk, but Sam is too nervous to give the man his full attention. "So what'd a Yawkie like you do to impress mister P.?" the cabbie finally wants to know, and Sam gently unpacks the painting.

"Das good," the cabbie praises. "You got talent, boy. Mind, better'n me grandad, and he was in galleries."

"Thank you," Sam replies. "How did you know I was a New Yorker?"

"You're harried," the cabbie replies, as if that explains it, and winds into a driveway as wide as some highways. "A man who's as quick as you, he got to be a Yawkie."

Sam finds the ephitet _yawkie_ to sound like the terrier, but he doesn't say so. He thanks the cabbie for the ride, tips him two (it's all he can afford, and even that is pushing it), and leaves the safe, certain interior of the taxi.

He hopes Lucifer hasn't changed his mind. Uncertain and more than a little scared, Sam goes to the door, and rings the bell. Melodic trills ring through the house's vast, almost cavernous space, and it takes a full two minutes before the door is opened for him by a woman in grey and white, her hair done up in a no-nonsense bun and wearing no-nonsense spectacles. Sam toes the ground, unsure of how to behave around her, when she reaches out. Startled, Sam jumps back, but she shakes her head.

"Give me the painting," she orders, annoyed. Sam passes it to her, wide-eyed, and lets himself be shepherded through corridors and hallways to an old oak door. It's nondescript and blond, polished to a shine, with a brass knob and handle. Sam glances behind him. The woman is gone.

"Hullo?" he tries in a small voice, and of course, that has no effect, so he knocks, almost immediately regretting his decision. Then, to his surprise, the door is unlocked and opened. A smallish, light brunette man with the most mischievous brown eyes Sam has ever seen leans into the doorframe, grinning around a straw in a coke glass filled to the brim with cherry soda. 

"Hey, gigantor," the man smirks. "I'm guessing you're Samuel. Lucy already told me to expect you."

"Uh, yeah. And my name's Sam. Not Gigantor," Sam mutters. The oral fixation laughs.

"Spunky. I like you, moose."

"Please stop," Sam mutters. 

"Gabriel," the man supplies, and holds out his hand. Sam shakes it, torn between amusement and disgust.

"So," Gabriel offers, leading Sam down yet another hallway to an office the size of a regular person's sitting room. "If you get the job, remind me to give you a survival almanac. Lucy can be pretty grumpy."

"I will," Sam grins. He's starting to like Gabriel. 

Perhaps the sentiment is returned, because Gabriel smiles back at him, claps him on the shoulder, and wishes him good luck.

Knowing he'll need it, Sam enters the office.

The East side of the office is entirely glassed and chromed, and the walls are white, decorated with dark wood panels in the middle and blak-and-white photographs. The desk in the corner is a monstrosity, the size of Sam's dining room table and cluttered with every imaginable sort of paperwork and novelty, and something tells him this isn't Lucifer's desk. The man is too sure of himself, too neat. Sam's gaze flickers to the desk at the other side of the room, and this is more like it. This desk is smaller, dark cherry, papers stacked meticulously, almost obsessively, and no photographs adorn the desk. It's a space purely for work.

He studies the room a bit further, noting the black leather sofa on Lucifer's side of the office, wanting badly to sit in it (when will he ever get a chance like this?) and deciding not to. It looks soft as suede and as comfortable as sitting in a bowl of butter. 

"Hello, Sam," a calm voice announces Lucifer's presence. Sam jumps.

"Hello, Mr. Petrucelli," he greets the man uncomfortably. Lucifer raises an eyebrow, amused, and strides into the office confidently, letting himself drop into the sofa.

"Sit down," he offers. "The sofa isn't there for decoration, you know."

Sam blushes furiously, but he accepts the offer. Lucifer sets his feet up on the coffee table, entirely unconcerned about politeness, and Sam reminds himself that he doesn't have to be; he is the one making the offer and dictating the terms, he is the one who has worked for this office and the right to put his feet up on his own coffee table.

"Martha has shown me the painting," Lucifer explains without preamble. Sam tries not to swallow, and fails miserably when icy blue eyes meet his.

"I find it very demonstrative of your abilities. It's a good painting, but it lacks depth," Lucifer says. Sam has no idea what to make of this. He just nods dumbly, trying not to let any of his crushed hope show. Clearly, this is the end. He had one chance, and he blew it.

But Lucifer is still watching him with a strange glint in his eyes. He doesn't look like he's going to give Sam a nod and a dismissive wave that will send him packing back to his shitty apartment. 

"That's not say I don't like it," Lucifer continues. "It's a rather nice piece."

Sam can't help the slight widening of his eyes. That may as well be the high praise of an accomplished international art critique.

He hasn't said anything else, so Sam nods and swallows and manages to give a quiet "Thank you."

Lucifer's mouth curls up ever so slightly at the edges. "You're quite welcome, Sam. It is an accurate painting, after all, not something many have achieved. Michael is by far the worst, but your depiction of Lucifer is..." He tilts his head, searching for the appropriate word. "Adequate."

He may as well have said perfect. 

Before Sam can even stutter out another thank you, Lucifer pulls an envelope out of his coat and hands it to Sam. There's nothing written on it to tell Sam what it is, and after a prompting nod, Sam opens it.  
He pulls out everything at once, and feels the floor fall out from under him at the check that lies on top of another stack of folded papers. It's already been filled out, and the amount on it - Sam wants to look over and ask if this is a cruel joke. No sane human being would pay this much for a painting.  
"Mr. Petrucelli -" he starts, but Lucifer is already waving his hand dismissively.

"I'm only paying what I think it's worth," he says firmly, so Sam nods and looks at the other papers.  
After scanning them for a minute, Sam realizes what he's looking at. It's an employment offer, using fancy words like "consult" and "freelancer" and "monthly stipend". Sam thinks he might have a heart attack right then and there.

"Thank you, sir," Sam says, still gaping at the papers.

"Is that a yes?" Lucifer asks idly. Sam looks over at him and sees the smirk playing at his mouth.

"Yes," Sam says firmly, and the smirk turns into a self-satisfied grin. 

Then, Lucifer recomposes himself. “I didn’t expect differently from you. I will have a flat rented for you near my house by April. I want you moved into it by June, and you will begin working for me full-time by July. If I see your work suggest forgery, or unsatisfactory quality, you will be fired. I trust you’re up to the task I am offering you.”

“Yes,” Sam repeats confidently. He catches his faux pas quickly, adding a “Sir” before Lucifer notices.  
Lucifer is gracious enough to pretend he doesn't catch the slip. He rises from the sofa, cracks his shoulder by snapping the joint back loudly, and stretches luxuriously. "I've got a client to attend to, now," he says, gives Sam an appraising, dismissive glance.

Sam gathers his messenger bag, his effects, and his coat, and rises to leave. Lucifer meets him halfway, offers his hand, and Sam shakes it, marvelling at how cool and smooth the blond's skin feels, almost like marble. 

"I'll see you in five months, then," Lucifer repeats, and Sam nods.

Lucifer holds the door for him, and Sam feels like he's floating on air when he leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is temporarily suspended from work. Also, there's a gunfight.

As it turns out, five months are a very long time when you happen to be waiting to be around someone you didn't know you admired, but do. 

Throughout March, Sam doesn't do much besides sketch, eat, shower and sleep. He's too excited. The memory of Lucifer's... well, yes, delight, when he saw the painting fills Sam's chest with something heavy and warm every time it comes, and more than once, he catches himself wondering what Lucifer could possibly be doing at that given moment. 

When the first of April finally arrives, Sam is full to the brink with restless energy. He's packed and unpacked all his meager possessions (there's barely enough to fill twelve boxes), and when the rickety old van stops in front of his door, he helps carry boxes out; he wants to be out of his house and inside the doubtlessly beautiful flat Lucifer has rented for him as soon as he physically can. 

It takes twenty-five minutes to drive to the flat, an hour to bring all the boxes into the flat, and Sam pays the movers with an old, crumpled twenty. He's anxious to be able to pay people (and treat himself) with new, fresh money that still sticks and smells of paint and silver.   
Eagerly, he shuts the door and surveys his new home. 

If he interpreted Lucifer correctly, all this is his, and it's for free. Glass windows cover the entire East side, and the rest of the flat is panelled in white. The roof is flat and lightly slanted, keeping the bulk of the sunlight out of Sam's face, and he already knows which way he will have to sit to use the light to paint. The sofa is soft, caramel-coloured, and every bit of furniture is pale gold teak, bar the elegantly wrought aluminum chairs. The entire flat is tastefully and artistically decorated.

Sam takes a look into the kitchen (chrome appliances, a six-panel stove, a state-of-the-art oven, and carbon steel knives that must have cost a fortune) and the bathroom (shower gel that looks luxurious and creamy, and smells wonderfully of iced pomegranate champagne, sharp razors, eucalyptus aftershave, and toothpaste that smells like spearmint gum), and then finally into his own room.

His first impression is of size; his next is of beauty and elegance. The bed is big, but not overpoweringly so, with black satin covers and white pillows that look stuffed to bursting with soft, downy feathers; the wardrobe is black, matte ebony. When Sam opens its doors cautiously, it yields an array of stunning suits and painter's coats. They're crisp black and white, absolutely flawless, gorgeous compared to the threadbare piece of shit he showed up in to his interview.

The telephone rings, bringing him out of his reverie. Quickly, nervously, he darts to it, grateful for the lack of stairs he has to clomp down, and answers. 

It's Gabriel, and he sounds excited.

"Hey, Gigantor," Gabriel greets him, and Sam can all but hear the grin in his voice. It makes him smile in return.

"Hey, Gabriel. What's up? How'd you know I was already moved in?"

"Helps to have Lulu as a brother," Gabriel replies with obvious annoyance. "I think he's in _love_ with you, Sammy."

" _What?_ " Sam exclaims at Gabriel's last eight words. Gabriel sighs, like it's obvious and Sam should stop being dumb.

"Lulu totally likes you, Sam. He's been talking about you nonstop for the past five days - Sam this, Sam that, blah blah, ‘have you seen the painting Sam made -’. Michael and I are _this close_ to throwing his ass out of the nearest window. I think you need to come here before he starts banging the couch to substitute you."

Sam's jaw nearly hits the floor.

"That's- that- Gabriel!" he half laughs, half scolds.

"I gotta go," Gabriel intervenes. "Michael's calling. See you, Gigantor."

"Bye," Sam laughs, shaking his head, and hangs up.

The warm and heavy feeling blooms in his chest again, and when he remembers Gabriel's indignant declaration that Lucifer is _in_ love _with him_ , he can't help but smile.

 

Friday comes with another phone call, this time from Michael. Sam can't help feeling insecure speaking to him, not least because in two years, he knows, Michael will be the family patriarch and then Sam will have to answer to him.

The call lasts all of a minute, and Michael asks him how he likes the flat, if he's happy to have landed the deal he did. Sam answers both questions affirmatively, then Michael excuses himself and hangs up on him, leaving Sam confused and feeling slightly put out.

The next phone call comes from a girl. She won’t give Sam her name or her reason for calling, only asking him whether he wants to start work a week early; he’s got that opportunity, now. He says yes.

And so, on the twenty-first of April, with one week to spare until May, Sam begins work. His first few days are uneventful, with only one commision given. He’s left alone, for the most part; Michael does stay and watch for a few hours one day, but Sam’s tense enough to convey successfully that he wants to be left alone throughout those hours. 

Sam doesn’t see Lucifer during these few days. In fact, the blond seems all but nonexistent. The only clue to his existence is a white rose left at Sam’s doorstep, sweet-smelling and fresh. Sam places it in a vase, and the vase on top of his nightstand.

 

Friday comes quickly. Sam has to struggle out of bed into harsh light, and by the time he’s fully awake, a knock carries upstairs. Suspicious, wondering who’s calling at this early hour, Sam dresses quickly and pelts down the stairs into the kitchen and from there to the door. 

Lucifer is standing at the door, holding a bottle of wine the price of which Sam doesn’t even want to guess at, and tilts his head.

“May I come in?” the blond asks politely. Sam glowers at him, too tired to form an articulate reply.

“Yeah,” he finally mutters, hoping he won’t regret this later. Lucifer grins.

“Thank you kindly,” he quip, and sets the bottle of wine down with a full-bodied _thunk_. Sam narrows his eyes.

“Do you plan on visiting me at six in the morning again anytime soon?” he asks, and Lucifer laughs musically. 

“As a matter of fact, yes, I do plan to further come visit you,” he allows, eyes radiant with mirth. 

“Whatever,” Sam grumbles. 

“I’ll make breakfast for us,” Lucifer offers calmly. His eyes follow Sam’s every move, pale and sharp.

“Let me do it,” Sam protests, and bumps gracelessly into the counter. The noise Lucifer makes in response is uncharacteristically close to a giggle, and before the blond can help himself, he’s roaring with laughter, both at Sam’s shocked expression and the situation, wiping tears from his eyes, shaking uncontrollably. Throughout this bizzare display, Sam can only stare in a mixture of startled pain and shocked amusement.

“What?” he asks when Lucifer has sufficiently calmed down to breathe regularly, and Lucifer meets his eyes, still trembling.

“It’s just that… oh, Sam…” he moans, and bursts into a fresh gale of laughter.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” he finally smiles. “I didn’t mean to laugh at you. I beg your pardon, Sam.”

“It’s rude to laugh at people’s accidents sir,” Sam grumbles disgustedly, wishing he could take back the retort . Lucifer nods graciously, overlooking the comment.

“I’m aware of that. ”

Sam scowls. “I wasn’t-”

“I know,” Lucifer interrupts gently. “Sit. Have some wine. I want to speak with you, talk a bit about your future.”

Sam’s blood runs cold. After Lucifer was so impressed with him, he’s fired already? He wills himself to sit across from Lucifer, mentally preparing himself for a tirade of disgust.

“The commission you received from Signor Balthazar is coming along well?” Lucifer asks calmly, sipping from the wine he has poured for them, and his eyes widen in enjoyment. Sam’s panic diminishes slightly.

“Yes, sir,” he replies. Lucifer raises an eyebrow. 

“Whatever’s the matter, Sam? You’re as stiff as a piece of rawhide. I didn’t say anything unbecoming, did I?” he inquires concernedly, and Sam feels the wine burn in his throat, feels it boil in his stomach, and he storms away from the table before he can apologise, into the bathroom.

Breathing hard, Sam doubles over the sink, washes his hands and face and gargles water to rid his mouth of the suddenly horrid taste of wine. All he can think of is how he nearly got fired, how he nearly lost his income, how he nearly lost his connection to Lucifer, and the last seems worst.

There’s a gentle knock at the door, and Sam turns, croaks a shy “Come in. I’m sorry.”

Lucifer opens the door carefully, steps inside the spacious bathroom. “Sam, whatever has come over you? Tell me.”

“Can’t,” Sam gasps, wiping water from his face, shaking his head. “Mr. Petrucelli, I can’t, I-”

“How does this sound - you tell me what is distressing you, or you are released from my service. Is that to your satisfaction?” Lucifer snaps, giving Sam a glimpse of the hard, cold man he is rumoured to be. Sam’s eyes widen in fear, and he turns back to the sink.

“Sir,” Sam pleads uneasily. “That’s what this was _about_. I was afraid I was fired when you said we needed to ‘talk about my future’, and it scared me. I didn’t know how else to react. I’m sorry.”

“That’s understandable,” Lucifer soothes, then adds thoughtfully, “if childish. Sam. Don’t ever run from me like that again. If ever I present a problem, or you need something from me, anything, don’t hesitate to ask me for help. I am more than happy to provide my assistance. However, I also have no use for an employee who is afraid of me and consistently avoids me. Are we at an understanding?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Sam argues indignantly.

“I have never lied to you. I never will,” Lucifer replies coldly, much less inviting than when he first came, and even more intimidating than he was during Sam’s first encounter with him. “I would have thought you’d have returned the favour, Sam. If I cannot trust you to even admit to something so simple, perhaps I should suspend you for the time being.”

Sam pales. Lucifer steps to the door.

“Goodbye, Sam,” he says, simple and toneless, and exits along the hallway. Moments later, Sam hears the telltale click of a lock-snap, and he lets his hand sink to the rim of the sink, breathless with fear.

 

Sam can’t decide whether or not to go to work, or to return to Michael’s house. His fear of alienating and offending Lucifer further is too great, and as far as he understands, he’s temporarily fired. 

As is, there’s nothing for him to do. Since Lucifer isn’t acting as his workgiver for the time being, Sam has no commissions to take care of, no one to talk to about his art, and it eats away at him. He’s angry at Lucifer - pissed off, disgusted, even hateful - but he also misses the occasional calls to see if he’s alright, the little gestures to show that Lucifer is metaphorically and literally watching over him, and unbidden, the white rose from last Friday surfaces in his mind. 

It occurs to Sam that he’s worked for Lucifer all of a week and a day. The rose withers and dies in his mind, and Sam finds himself going through his morning routine listlessly, then, like a small child. 

Exhausted, wondering if this is what it feels like to go into shock, he phones Dean, hoping Dean won’t pick up so he won’t have to speak to him, and wanting him to answer the call more than anything else in the world. Of course, Dean picks up, and Sam makes a wounded noise of relief.

“Hey, man,” he all but breathes, shaking so hard he has to sit down in one of the plush, soft chairs at the dining table. He can’t keep the stress out of his voice, not after what happened, and Dean latches onto his distress like a hound onto a trail.

“Sammy, who hurt you? Who do you want me to give a good kick where it hurts most?” Dean asks, and Sam can hear his anger, can practically see the one raised eyebrow and the clench of Dean’s jaw. He can’t help laughing.

“Nobody, Dean. Nobody gets kicked in the balls. It wasn’t his fault?”

“Wasn’t whose fault?” Dean growls. “Tell me, Sam.”

And it’s _Sam_ , now, not Sammy. Sam bows his head, even though Dean can’t see him, and palms through his hair distractedly, his fingers coming away matte and oily. He can’t find it in himself to be disgusted; all this has left him exhausted and barely able to drag himself out of bed every morning. The luxury shames him, a constant reminder of Lucifer’s generosity and kindness.

“Lucifer’s,” Sam concedes tiredly. Then he launches into an almost pleading tirade. “The lawyer, Dean. He came over to my house to talk about my paintings. He was so pleased with them. He’s intimidating, though, and I thought I was fired. The way he said everything, you know? We got into an argument and I told him he didn’t scare me, even though he does, at least I _think_ he does, and he got pissed off at me and told me that if I wasn’t going to be honest with him, I could stop working for him, and now I’m suspended. He hasn’t said for how long?”

“What a dick,” Dean mutters angrily. “Look, Sammy, you may not be the biggest angel of the lot, but you’re still my baby bro, and I’m not going to let that stuck-up, fancy-schmancy piece of shit walk over you like. You hear me? Next time something happens, I’m coming over and getting you.”

“Sure,” Sam allows weakly, wanting very badly to hang up all of a sudden. There’s a foul taste in his mouth. “Thanks, Dean. Love you.”

“M-mm,” Dean goes, and then Dad is screaming for him, and Dean hangs up.

Sam remembers then the new Chevy Impala Dean bought for himself this year. With a car like that, it’ll take Dean a matter of 50 hours at most, not the old 60. And Sam finds that two days and two hours are very little time. Not very much time at all. He finds himself wishing he’d never called Dean.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is mugged in the taxi he's supposed to be taking.   
> Terribly inconvenient things, these knives.  
> This one had landed him in the hospital, and on top of that, he's found out something about Lucifer he's not sure he wants to know.

It’s Wednesday by the time Michael calls Sam to tell him he can come back. The conversation lasts all of two minutes, and is mostly punctuated by Michael’s silence, but Sam can’t hold back the sob of relief building is his chest after Michael hangs up. 

He packs everything, his best brushes and paint, the highest-quality pencils he can find, into his knapsack, and draws the strings together. It’s all he can do to keep from dancing in delight. Lucifer has forgiven him, apparently, and dear lord but Sam wants his approval so much. 

As quickly as he can, he runs out again, hails another taxi, and by the time he’s climbed into the warm, tobacco-smelling cockpit, Sam is overcome by a curious sense of deja-vu.

He never notices the man on the back bench, the man with the knife, until it’s too late and six inches of stainless steel have been buried in his thigh. The cabbie sits in his seat, still with shock, and the knife-man goes to work on the cabbie, arm pistoning frantically. Sam pales, tries to scream for help, can’t. 

He can’t even get out of this fucking car. His bad leg is seizing up, and that blade keeps missing his face and neck by inches.

Somewhere nearby, Sam hears someone yelling into a telephone. He sways toward the door, tips out of it, having been miraculously able to open it without cutting himself (someone shot through the glass, he thinks), and pitches onto the street. Strong arms lift him up, and his head swims in grey - and then there’s nothing.

 

Sam wakes up to a steady drip and a burning sensation in his left thigh. The light’s too bright, too clear, and there are voices nearby, excited, riled voices. He turns onto his side with a growl, the growl turning into a moan as his weight settles on his bad leg.

Beeping registers. Sam turns his head weakly, stares uncomprehendingly at the green line monitoring his heartbeat. His leg hurts, his back hurts, his head feels like he’s spent a day in a construction zone, and he has to pee. 

The thought strikes him as crude and childish. He laughs, unable to help himself. 

The door swings open quietly, and Michael steps into the room, looking uneasy. 

“You’re awake,” he realises a moment later, coming to Sam’s bedside. “Good. Do you think you can talk?”

“Yeah,” Sam croaks, throat burning. “I think.”

“Can you hold a conversation?” Michael prods further. Sam shrugs.

“Try,” Michael half suggests, half orders before being shoved out of the way.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, brushes a strand of hair out of his brother’s face. Sam closes his eyes, settles into the touch; it’s been awhile since he has seen Dean, and the last time he saw him, they’d been having a fight over John being gone. It occurs to him then how much he’s missed Dean, as much of an asshole as Dean has been.

“Hey,” he smiles. “ ‘s good seeing you.”

“Yeah,” Dean grins. “There’s a guy who wants to talk to you, I think. He’s next to me.He’s looking at you like he needs something.”

Sam doesn’t open his eyes. “Is he still there?”

“Excuse me,” a familiarly warm, polite voice says to Dean, and Dean shuffles to the side. Sam opens his eyes, sees the last person he wants to see right at this moment.

“What do you need, Lucifer?” Sam asks bluntly, rudely, not caring. The blond furrows his brows, concerned, and glances at Michael, looking like the world has fallen from its hinges.

“You haven’t told him?” he asks weakly, and Michael shakes his head.

“I wanted you to break it to him,” he admits. Lucifer pales with anger.

“Tell me what?” Sam asks, scared. Dean rounds on Michael and Lucifer, enraged. Michael stands his ground. Lucifer steps back to Sam’s bedside.

“I pulled you out of that cab, Sam,” he reveals angrily. “You have no reason to be angry with me, none whatsoever.”

Dean drops his fist, stunned. “You did what?!”

“Saved Sam’s life,” Lucifer repeats, cold and blunt. “There was an attack near my house. He was stabbed in the leg, and a bullet grazed his right cheek.”

“Still, you can’t just come in here and scare the shit out of my baby brother,” Dean hisses and his fists come back up, testing the air. Lucifer wisely backtracks a step.

“I apologise for Sam’s feelings being hurt,” he snarls back. Dean goes the colour of cold porridge, and Lucifer takes another step backward. It’s not enough to save him from Dean’s fist, which socks into the bridge of his nose, cartilage snapping beneath Dean’s knuckles. 

Dean wipes blood off of the back of his hand in disgust, glowers at Lucifer, who glances helplessly at Sam, palms another swath of blood away from his nostrils, and storms out of the room.

“What a dick,” Dean snarls, ignoring Michael. Michael also stomps out, leaving Dean alone with Sam.

“Sammy?” Dean asks softly, worriedly. Sam turns away.

“You broke his nose, Dean. He’s the most powerful man in this part of town. He could have you arrested.”

“He insulted you, Sammy,” Dean argues, confused. He knows Sam is right, but with any other person, Sam would have thanked him for such a gesture. With Lucifer, Sam is acting disgusted and angry, both at the blond’s words and at seeing him hurt.

“You didn’t have to _break his nose_ , though,” Sam exclaims almost pleadingly. “If he sues you we’ll never be able to afford bail!”

“Do you _like_ him?” Dean spits, enraged. “God, Sammy, I thought you had better taste than a   
shitload of cash and a pretty face. He’s a piece of shit! Why can’t you see that?”

“He took me under his wing, Dean,” Sam replies helplessly. “I… I feel like I owe him something, you know?”

“No,” Dean growls.

He turns to go, and as he reaches the door, he wheels to face Sam again. “Oh, Sam?”

“Huh?”

“I was just wondering if anyone ever told you pretty boy was next in line to be the chairman of the Sicilian Mafia? After Michael dies or gets killed or whatever the fuck happens, your boyfriend will be a full-fledged criminal. I hope you’ll like banging a hustler,” Dean taunts. He’s had it with Sam’s constant defense of Lucifer, and he wants to make Sam _hate_ the man.

“That’s bullshit,” Sam almost pleads, pale. Dean shakes his head.

“I heard he already got into the books, and he’s clipped a couple of people too,” he growls.

“GET OUT!” Sam bellows, tries to sit up and collapses back down, breathing hard. “GET THE FUCK OUT, DEAN! He’s not like that, he isn’t, I _know_ he’s not!”

“Read the news for once, Sammy,” Dean sneers derisively, turns on his heel, and leaves the room. 

Sam stares after his departing form, stunned, and drops his hand into his lap, wanting nothing more than for Dean to be wrong. He wants so _badly_ for Dean to be wrong. 

There’s a newspaper beside him. Sam picks it up, flips it to the **WANTED** page, scans the list until he comes to the _P_ s - and there it is. Lucifer’s name, bolded, with a bounty of two million dollars on his head. _Two million dollars, two million fucking dollars…_

Sam’s torn between hating Dean and hating Lucifer, between quitting his job and punching Dean in the face, and the longer he stares at the paper, the more convinced he becomes he’ll go crazy, until it drops from his fingers and he stares at the far wall, eyes wide.

An insane laugh bubbles up in his throat, claws its way out, and before he can do shit to stop himself, Sam bursts into helpless, exhausted tears. 

There’s a gentle knock at the door. He wipes his cheeks, tries to compose himself, and when he feels he’s reasonably steady, mutters, “Come in.”

“Hello, Sam,” Michael murmurs softly, shuts the door behind him with a sound like a book being laid onto a table, and sits in the visitor’s chair. “Dean told me what happened. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

“Would’ve been nice to know beforehand,” Sam grumbles, close to unhingement again. His voice is shaking dangerously, and he knows Michael can hear it. 

“You would have never accepted the job offer,” Michael sighs. “And we didn’t want to give up an artist as talented as you, Sam. It was too much potential we were risking giving away.”

“There would have _been_ no risk!” Sam exclaims angrily, sitting up. “Don’t you fucking _get it_? I wouldn’t have gone for anyone else!”

Michael draws back, startled both by Sam swearing at him and the aggressive tone the younger man is using. 

“What do you mean?” he finally manages, uneasy. Sam makes a frustrated noise.

“I was so happy when Lucifer asked me to work for him,” he murmurs. “I felt honoured, Michael. Like he chose me for something. Like… Like I was meant to be his, you know? And the way his face lit up when I said yes, oh my god, it was like... “

“Like your crush finally acknowledged you,” Michael supplies. “Gabriel told me that he suspects you’re romantically interested. If it makes you feel better, Lucifer likes you too. He’s obsessed with your art, and with you.”

Sam doesn’t know what to say. Every last ounce of colour has drained from his face, but at Michael’s silence, the blood flushes back in, and a wide grin nearly splits his face in two. 

“You guys’re…”

“In the Mafia, yes,” Michael interrupts. 

“So I can’t… I mean, even if it were legal, I… we couldn’t…”

“Sam,” Michael interrupts again, and places a pair of gentle hands onto Sam’s shoulders. “Sam, listen to me. We are the Mafia. We don’t regard laws anymore than anyone who isn’t the police does. If you want to be with Lucifer, you have my blessing. All I ask is that you stay faithful. My brother is not a man who gives his heart away easily. And we have had our fallings-out, but the last thing I want is to see him hurt. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Sam smiles. “Do you think he’ll want to ask me, or should I ask?”

“Give him a little time. He’ll want to court you, and after he feels he’s been successful in doing that, to make it clear to the world that you’re his. He’s still angry over the fight you had on Saturday, but he’s forgiven you, he says. All you have to do now is be careful with your words and your heart, Sam. That’s all the advice I can give you.”

Michael rubs Sam’s shoulder gently, grinning. “Maybe I’ll have a new little brother-in-law soon,” he suggest, smiling, and exits the room with a little wave.

Sam returns the wave, eyes glowing with joy at the suggestion, and he slips into sleep with a huge grin on his face, overjoyed.

 

_His dreams are of a gorgeous, picturesque Tuscan countryside beneath a bright blue sky, and too many people. The scent of dry, resinous air and wind and sand fills Sam’s lungs as he inhales, a smell so Italian it hurts. He grins, weaves through an elegant crowd in black and white, and finds himself before a lashing sea all of a sudden._

_This is no longer Tuscany, but it’s still beautiful. Rocky outcrops and beaches so white and fine their sand looks like foam surround him, and the air smells like salt, algae and impending rain. Sam leans his head back, lets the gentle wind play in his hair, and suddenly there’s a hand on his shoulder, warm and firm, but surprisingly light. He turns._

_There’s Lucifer, looking handsome in white, his hair longer than Sam remembers it, bleached almost platinum by the sun. His face is consumed by a crooked grin, those pale eyes glowing with an emotion Sam can’t place._

_“I’ve missed you,” he sighs, reaches out, and takes Sam’s hand in his own. “Do you know how much I missed you, darling?”_

_Sam shakes his head. “We only just saw each other yesterday, Lucifer,” he mutters uncomfortably, and Lucifer’s eyes soften tenderly._

_“Sam,” he murmurs, voice low. “Sam, it’s been eight years.”_

_Lucifer’s face disappears behind a veined web of black, and he reaches hands that are now cold and clammy for Sam’s neck, hissing snarling like some ancient underwater beast._

_“You left me, Sam,” the Lucifer-thing gurgles, eyes silver and pallid. “You left me alone, to starve, to live alone, you left me, but now you’ll never leave me again…”_

_It drags Sam to the edge of the cliff they’re standing nearby, and by now Sam is thrashing and screaming, and the monster won’t let go, and Sam finds himself floating weightlessly, then rushing toward the ground with wind stinging in his eyes and howling in his ears._

_He wakes, startled, a moment before impact, and turns onto his side, and touches his cheek, surprised when his hand comes away wet._

 

The next day, Sam simply lays in bed, numb and exhausted. He can’t will himself to get up, to eat or drink. All he can do, and wants to do, is stay here until someone comes for him. He’s afraid if he follows his routine all alone now, he’ll become too accustomed to it. He doesn’t want to be alone right now. Somehow, last night’s dream seems like a warning for times to come. 

When a nurse comes in to bring him food and check his vital signs, Sam pretends to be asleep. He can’t deal with strangers right now. It’s easier to feign ignorance.

The day Sam’s scheduled to leave, Lucifer visits him.

He’s carrying a bouquet of wildflowers, red and white, which he sets on Sam’s chest for lack of a vase. Sam picks it up, sniffs the flowers, and smiles.

“So you’ve forgiven me?” he asks softly. Lucifer raises an eyebrow.

“If anything I should be asking that question,” he replies, voice slightly harsh. “But yes, I’ve forgiven you.”

Sam smiles warmly at him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was afraid you’d say no,” Lucifer murmurs. “I wanted you to say yes so much, Sam.”

“I would have,” Sam whispers, voice giving way. Lucifer’s too close, his eyes too soft. “Of course I would have, Lucifer.”

“Manners, Sam,” Lucifer whispers back, but he’s smiling. 

He brushes a strand of hair out of Sam’s forehead, and leans forward further, bridging the gap between them. Sam goes rigid, and Lucifer drops his hand away again, looking sheepish and apologetic. The expression he’s wearing makes Sam laugh softly.

“I’ll call a nurse,” Lucifer murmurs, brushes Sam’s hair back into place teasingly, and stands up.

“I don’t want you to go,” Sam admits, regretting it the instant he says it. All the morphine he’s been getting must have been addling his brain! But all Lucifer does is smile, arrange the flowers in the vase beside Sam’s bed, and promise in a soft whisper that he’ll be back.

Sam passes out before he ever comes back.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time he wakes up again, Sam hears soft humming, and rustling. He cracks one eye open, sees Lucifer’s blurry outline, and something moving between the blond’s hands.

“Are you well, Sam?” Lucifer asks gently. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“Nah,” Sam murmurs sleepily and rolls over. Lucifer smiles, eyes soft, and sets whatever it is he’s holding down.

Sam falls back asleep, feeling curiously light. He can hear Lucifer humming again, and then nothing.

 

The next time he regains consciousness, Lucifer is sitting beside him, looking concerned.

“Oh, Sam,” he sighs sadly and reaches out to cup Sam’s cheek in his palm. Sam nestles into the touch, ignoring the fact that, under different circumstances, he would instantly be fired for this sort of behaviour.

“Mr. Petrucelli,” he mumbles, and Lucifer glances down at him.

“Yes?” he asks softly, thumb tracing a soft arch over Sam’s cheekbone, hands comfortingly cold in the stifling room. 

Sam stares at him, looking for a reason to have called him.

“You haven’t been shaving,” Sam observes, feeling like an idiot. He lets his eyes wander over Lucifer’s stubbly cheeks, and the blond snorts and grins.

“Well, yes,” he laughs. “I _have_ been rather worried, you know.”

“What about?” Sam demands jealously. Lucifer coughs into the back of his hand, obviously trying not to laugh harder, and Sam makes a wounded face at him.

“A rather unfortunate victim of circumstance,” Lucifer replies gently. “Someone who’s been through a lot lately.”

“Oh,” Sam goes, disappointed. Lucifer’s face falls into something incredibly soft and amused-looking, almost adoring.

“I was worried about _you_ , Sam,” he mutters, shaking his head in amusement. Sam glowers at him half-heartedly.

“You’re a dick,” he grumbles angrily, trying to ignore the warm feeling in his chest.

“Careful,” Lucifer warns, but he sounds no less threatening than someone telling the weather on the news. In fact, he sounds rather gentle, almost tender. 

“Sorry,” Sam gasps, rolls over onto his side to cough out the rough feeling in his chest. Lucifer watches him with his torso leaned forward and his hands ready to catch Sam should the need arrive. He doesn’t end up needing to hold Sam, but by the time Sam has recovered and is wiping the thin spray of spit from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I’ll bring you water,” Lucifer offers gently, concernedly, and Sam nods weakly in grateful acceptance. His throat feels like a dragon pissed down it, not that he knows the feeling, but it sounds like a good comparison. 

He laughs at his own image, and Lucifer rolls his eyes at him.

“Don’t move,” he commands.

“Aye, Captain,” Sam giggles, chest aching, head throbbing, and ignores Lucifer’s disgusted look.

“I’ll be back with water,” Lucifer continues, walking backward, watching Sam. “Stay there.”

He exits the room, leather shoes silent on the polished floor, a blur in black, and returns a minute later holding a glass filled with lukewarm water.

“Thanks,” Sam croaks and accepts the water, sloshing half of it over himself. He makes a frustrated noise, waves Lucifer over helplessly. The blond darts to his bedside, holds Sam up gently with his forearm, and Sam gulps down the rest of what’s in the glass.

“Better?” Lucifer asks gently. Sam nods tiredly, lets his eyes drift shut. Lucifer sets him back onto the bed gently.

“I have convinced the doctors to let you leave tomorrow,” he smiles before leaving. Sam’s face lights up delightedly, and Lucifer mirrors his overjoyed expression.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Gabriel will be bringing you your things first thing in the morning,” Lucifer promises with a last smile.

Sam smiles back at him, and falls asleep, hoping Lucifer is right and this will be his last night in this dreadful, alcohol-smelling place.

 

Gabriel whips into the room at dawn, loud and energetic as always, a veritable whirlwind of good cheer. 

“Up you get, Gigantor!” he yells happily, dumping something vaguely heavy onto Sam’s stomach and prancing to the curtains to open them. Sam groans and pulls a pillow over his face, but he doesn’t have the energy to tell Gabriel to leave. As it is, the smaller man yanks the covers off of him, toppling whatever was on top of him to the ground with a _thwup_ , and Sam yelps at the sudden cold. 

“Come on,” Gabriel barks at him. Sam groans angrily.

“Piss off, Gabriel,” he growls, kicking out, hoping he hit Gabriel with his foot. The small man dances away from Sam’s range, laughing, and bolts out of the door.

He returns bringing Lucifer, Lucifer calm and resplendent in a black suit. His hair is rough and tousled and his eyes flit from point to point in the sanitary, chlorine-smelling white room.

‘“Hello, Sam,” he greets calmly. Sam glances up and smiles.

“Have you brought him his things?” Lucifer asks Gabriel, who’s been busy dancing in place to music only he can imagine. Sam fights a laugh at the brunet’s expression; it pains his chest.

“Sure,” Gabriel smiles, indicates the black overnight bag at Sam’s feet. Lucifer nods, satisfied.

“Sam, get up,” he commands, voice low and coiled with tension, like the growl of a hunting lion. Sam stands and falters, and Lucifer ducks forward to support him. Grateful, Sam leans into the blond’s shoulder, letting Lucifer bear his weight entirely.

“Are we taking your car?” he asks hopefully. Lucifer laughs very close to his ear, his voice deep and pleasant, and Sam feels the muscles in his neck flutter as he shakes his head.

“A taxi,” he explains. Sam hums mistrustfully, and Lucifer walks, to the door, barely slowed by Sam’s weight. He must be strong, Sam reckons.

“We’re going to my house,” Lucifer says after several minutes of carrying Sam. Sam makes a noise in his chest, happy that he gets to stay in Lucifer’s company longer. Gabriel laughs behind them.

 

They drive, and they reach Michael’s house in half an hour.

Sam stumbles out of the car and to the door, with Lucifer jogging close behind. He gasps as the blond collides with him, all solid weight and dense musculature, but Lucifer laughs and unlocks the door and leads him in.

“It’s dark in here,” he grumbles. “I don’t like it.”

He ignores the artificial dusk in favour of Lucifer’s small, bright form at the other end of the hallway, the reflection of light in his pale eyes. Sam doesn’t think he’s ever seen something this beautiful.

“Come here, Sam.” Lucifer murmurs, voice carried by excellent acoustics. Sam obeys, and Lucifer sweeps him up once he’s close enough to touch.

“Dance with me,” he whispers, places his arms around Sam, and glances up at Sam, and Sam’s still giddy enough from the cocktail of drugs in his blood that he does.

They dance, slowly and rendered awkward by Sam’s bad leg, and Sam sees nothing but Lucifer’s eyes and the gleam of light in his bright hair, hears only his soft laughter as they waltz gracelessly through the huge, dim hallway. Sam thinks he may be falling in love.

“You’re crushing me,” Lucifer suddenly admonishes gently, prying Sam’s arm away from his shoulders. 

“Sorry,” Sam grins sheepishly. He lets go of Lucifer’s shoulders, lets the blond take his hand in his own and lead him into a kitchen tiled in white and smelling of exotic spices and some kind of sauce Sam can’t even begin to identify. Everything is elegantly decorated with golden wood and chrome, with pale blue accents. Sam likes the kitchen immediately. It looks like Lucifer belongs in it, not least because of the colour scheme.

“There are cookies in the cupboard,” Lucifer offers gently. “You can help yourself to them, if you like.”

Sam is surprised by the banality of cookies, and even more so when he finds cheap Archway sugar cookies. Still, he takes two, nibbling at one of them, and watches Lucifer gather bowls and forks from the cupboard above him and the drawer left of him, respectively. 

“I made Thai,” he explains at Sam’s inquiring glance and spoons noodles, meat and spicy-smelling orange sauce into a bowl, then hands the bowl to Sam. Sam accepts the bowl, mouth watering - he’s never smelled anything this good in his life.

“It smells delicious,” he praises. Lucifer smiles.

“It’s my pleasure,” he replies graciously, fills a bowl for himself, and rummages in one of the drawers before coming up with chopsticks. Real ones, too. They’re carved from dark wood and etched with what Sam guesses are Chinese symbols. 

“You want these?” he offers, and Sam nods eagerly, holding out his hand inquiringly, like a child almost. He’s never had the chance to eat with chopsticks. Until now, he didn’t even know you could get them in stores. Most Chinese places he’s been to don’t even carry them.

He tries copying Lucifer’s grip, fails miserably, and lets the chopsticks click back into his bowl with a frustrated little noise. Lucifer snorts, grabs Sam’s hand, and arranges the chopsticks in between Sam’s fingers gently.

“Hold that,” he orders, and Sam finds he can. Lucifer nods, satisfied.

“Now move them like scissors,” he suggests, and again Sam finds himself capable. He grins and tries to grab a few noodles, and it only takes him three tries. After that, it’s the easiest thing in the world.

It’s the easiest thing to stare are the sharp curves of Lucifer’s cheekbones and the softer one of his throat, to watch smoke from the pot coalesce in front of him and turn his eyes silvery green. It’s so incredibly easy to enjoy this delicious meal, and when Lucifer places his hand over Sam’s, Sam sets his bowl down and leans his entire shoulder into Lucifer’s.

The blond makes a little sound - a sigh, maybe. “You must be very trusting,” he murmurs, and Sam hears music in his voice and in the steady sweep of his breathing, he sees light in the glimmer of Lucifer’s eyes and the slight curve of his mouth to a smile.

“I think naive is more like it,” Sam admits, and Lucifer snorts and smiles. He is white and golden and stunning and Sam likes him this way, he likes him a lot. He likes the way Lucifer’s eyes catch every ray and mote of sun and he likes the way Lucifer’ hair glimmers like silk and the way his bones peek under his skin when he smiles and the way he smells and the way he talks.

Sam likes everything Lucifer has to offer. 

“I could have poisoned the noodles,” Lucifer allows, smiling sharkishly, and Sam narrows his eyes in a playful glare. 

“You didn’t, though,” he says, half asking to make sure. Lucifer bursts out laughing, and even now, being a veritable piece of shit, he’s magnificent. Sam wants to hate him for it, he really does. He wants something to hold against his boss. He can’t, though, and it infuriates him.

“I didn’t,” Lucifer soothes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so mean.”

Sam wants to say something biting like asshole is more like it, but losing his job simply isn’t worth it, so he contents himself with glowering at Lucifer like he wants to lower him onto a set of butcher’s hooks, to which Lucifer responds with a warm, sweet smile and the offer of another bowlful of noodles.

“I never showed you my room,” he suddenly exclaims, grabs Sam’s arm and leads him out of the kitchen excitedly. Sam is shocked by the sudden shift in Lucifer’s mood, and by the blond’s good mood today. He’s never witnessed Lucifer this capricious, and it’s hard to imagine his boss this excited over something as childish as showing off his own room, however cool or beautiful or novel it may be. Sam doesn’t think he’ll be impressed unless there is an observatory or a planetarium or an aquarium in the walls.

They dash upstairs, Lucifer flying up nimbly, leaping over sets of three or four stairs like a boy climbing mountains, and even with his long legs, Sam has trouble keeping up. 

When they reach Lucifer’s room, his first thought is _this better be fucking worth it_. His next is… honestly, he doesn’t think there is a next thought. He’s too busy gaping at the star-spangled ceiling and the veins of turquoise light surrounding him, and beside him, Lucifer is gazing up at his ceiling, as if he’s just awed by it as Sam is. Sam supposes he is; he knows he himself wouldn’t ever get tired of a view like this. It’s beautiful.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmurs softly. Lucifer smiles happily, like a child, and Sam wants nothing more than to kiss him all of a sudden. 

The light splits on Lucifer’s face, making it glow like a miniature rainbow. “It is,” he agrees warmly, and for the first time, Sam sees him happy, truly happy. It’s stunning to behold, and Sam wants to see it over and over again until the day he dies, he thinks. As stupid and cliche as it is, Lucifer happy is Lucifer at his most beautiful.

“You’re smiling,” Sam notes, grinning back, and Lucifer’s smile widens to split his face.

“Yes,” he agrees succinctly. “I’m happy, Sam. For a number of reasons.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam mutters, wondering what in the world could possibly make a self-absorbed, rich, cynical man like Lucifer this boyishly delighted. Nothing comes to mind at immediate thought, so he gives up and makes a questioning face at Lucifer. “What sort of reasons?”

“Well,” the blond sighs, and takes Sam’s hand between his own. “There’s you, for one.”

And he lets Sam’s hand down again, eyes soft, nearly liquid with affection. Sam feels his heart stumble over a beat, feels his breath catch in his throat, and Lucifer cups his cheek in one elegant hand, skin cool and smooth.

“Huh,” Sam goes stupidly, and Lucifer smiles warmly like he’s the most beautiful thing in the world. He leans in, one hand still around the curve of Sam’s cheek, and kisses Sam, then. 

Sam makes a noise that he thinks may or may not be a sigh, and lets Lucifer claw his other hand into the hairs at the nape of his neck. In a way, Sam is disappointed; he thinks Lucifer kisses too softly, and he’s too gentle to entirely satisfy, and so Sam ducks forward and kisses back as hard as he can without bruising Lucifer or biting him.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before they break for air, and when they do, Lucifer’s eyes are shining and his cheeks are flushed.

“Impertinent,” he laughs breathlessly. “I like you.”

Sam smiles, giddy with joy, and suddenly a horrible suspicion overcomes him. “Am I fired now?” he asks, terrified that Lucifer will say yes, but Lucifer shakes his head, eyebrows beetled together in amused confusion.

“Not at all,” he replies. “If anything I would have to fire myself; I did, after all, initiate that.” And he takes Sam’s hand between his own again, kisses the knuckles, and lets his eyes drift shut. “You’re beautiful, Sam. I cannot begin to describe how lucky I am to have gained your acceptance and to have wooed you.”

Sam can’t help the noise that escapes him at the praise. Lucifer notices, and smiles again.

“I don’t want to rush you into anything you are uncomfortable with,” he murmurs, voice steady and soft. “But if you’re willing, I will do everything in my power - which is very vast, all things considered - to make you happy and ensure your safety. If you so will it, I will gift you with any worldly thing you can want. I would go to the ends of the earth for you if it kept you safe from harm. All I ask in return is that you let me love you. You needn’t even return my affection.”

“Why?” Sam asks.

“Why, what?” Lucifer asks almost tenderly in return. 

“Why… why do you love me in the first place?”

Lucifer thinks for a moment, and replies, “I do. I saw you one day in your atelier across from the bakery, and I had to do a double take. You looked incredibly sad and tired, but there was some boundless energy about you that made you stunning in my eyes. I couldn’t stop thinking about you all day.”

“And why don’t I have to love you back? I can’t imagine why a man like you would be content to love and not be loved back,” Sam mutters uneasily. Lucifer shrugs.

“I am content to admire you from afar, if you don’t want me. I will not bother you if you don’t want me to, and I won’t ask for a reciprocation of my feelings. It is not in my nature.”

Sam shakes his head, stunned, and tangles his fingers into Lucifer's hair, loving how soft it feels. 

"I think I like your nature, then," he smirks, and draws the blond close for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> im going to cry now goodbye


End file.
